The interim pause at the start of summer should be called “Waiting for the ... .” You can fill in the blanks. This could be anything from the plumber to the air-conditioner man to the electrician. You can call for help, but more than likely you will be put on a list, much like the standby roster for an airline, only it would be quicker to get a seat on the flight and then get thrown off.
If you don’t live with a handyman, you are in for the long haul to get anything fixed. I always envied those neighbors whose garage door was open, and the husband was in there looking like he was making all kinds of stuff to fix the house. There was a lot of wood and cool tools scattered around the entrance.
I don’t have that luxury; I can’t even get the garage door to open, and the guy who installed it still isn’t back from his winter vacation in Antigua. We consider it a victory that it is stuck halfway open, so we can at least crawl underneath to retrieve the hose that is kinked in a position so solid the Israeli government is considering buying it as a weapon.
When I was in college, I saw a play by Samuel Beckett called “Waiting for Godot.” It was about a couple of guys waiting for someone named Godot, who never showed up. Personally, I never understood the play, but had enthusiastically agreed to go, mainly to impress my date that I not only was very intelligent, but extremely arty and could stay awake even if I was developing numbness in my legs, due to lack of circulation in my fake brain.
At that time, being intelligent was considered very “in.” The height of smartness was demonstrated by couples holding fondue parties, where guests heated oil to the temperature of Mars and dipped artery-clogging bread and cheese into this vat and ate communally.
Wearing clogs on your feet was a must, as was sitting on the floor using such terms as “linear expressions of the meaning of life” and “deconstruction theories of sensual experiences.” Huh?
Funny thing is, I actually ran into my former date for the play a few years later. He introduced me to his wife, who was kind of into the arts. She was starring as the featured pole dancer at the Bada Bing Club.
We’ve come a long way since then in terms of proving our intelligence. We simply don’t talk to anyone, and instead spend our communication skills working on high-tech devices, like games that involve slinging animated birds and pigs through the air.
Anyone can do this. Sales of pretend iPhones and fake iPads have skyrocketed.
The best thing that can happen to you in this interim is to befriend a guy who knows how to fix stuff. I knew someone who could move refrigerators with one hand. He drove around in a silver pickup truck with tires the size of South America. The four tied-up alligators riding shotgun were almost as big. His name was Beauford, but his friends (well, he actually only had one) called him Excessive Force.
Anyway the guy was a genius, not in the “Jeopardy” sense, but in the “hand me the double-40 wrench and extra-large crowbar” sense.
Beau was like a rock star in the neighborhood. Every woman hoped he would stop by and do stuff like enclose the outdoor porch or pour a cement patio floor while she fixed him a cup of coffee. We hung flags outside our front doors that said “Open.”
Unfortunately there aren’t enough Beaus to go around. So you are just going to have to put your name on the waiting list and wait for the cows to come home. In fact, I think I see a couple of Holsteins at my front door. Gotta go!
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Nancy Katz has a degree in creative writing and is the author of the book, "Notes from the Beach." She has written the column Around Town for the Cape Gazette for twenty years. Her style is satirical and deals with all aspects of living in a resort area on Delmarva.
